Scaring Fields
Copyright 2014 Wren Roberts
Table of Contents
Scaring Fields
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Scaring Fields
The way Matilda figures it, she has two choices: She can keep walking out to the scaring fields and die, or she can try and run. Running, she understands, isn't really an option. Running would only be delaying the inevitable, with the added bonus that not only would she also, again, die, but so would everyone she knows.
She keeps walking
Now it is dark, and without the light of the moon, it is hard to see anything. Luckily, she knows these footpaths well. How many times has she walked them on her way to help with the harvest? How many times has she run this way, looking for her brother at supper? Now she wonders how long it will be until They grab her and take her away.
They are the scarecrows. Naturally.
It's who the They are officially, though Matilda is pretty sure that's just bullshit. The scarecrows are the cover story; the story grandmothers tell children to frighten them into obedience. Tonight, Matilda is certain she has found herself in a game of cat and mouse with the village elders.
She rolls the handle of the ceremonial steak knife in her hand. It's smooth. Of course it is. This stupid steak knife is all that will be left of her by the time dawn rolls in. The other villagers will comb the fields looking for it, and whoever finds it will get a piece of cake. Matilda had won that game herself once, when she was maybe seven or eight. As was the case then, the elders will clean the knife, put it in a box, and not bother to think about it again until the next sacrifice is chosen next month.
She's almost to the fields now. Under a mile. She slows down and takes a deep breath. She doesn't really want to die, but what other choice does she have?
///
The village Elders came to Matilda's parents that morning. It was only an hour after dawn. Which made sense, because Matilda understood that the selection ceremony was held at dawn on the night of the new moon.
Apparently they had some kind of selection stone, which would reveal to them the name of the chosen sacrifice. It was written in blood. Though to whom did the blood belong? Matilda thinks a DNA test would be enlightening, and probably reveal the Prime Elder to be a prime asshole.
The Elders came and pounded on the wooden door of the family cottage. Her father had answered the door, still a little delirious and half-asleep. They had shown him the stone and told him that he had a duty to deliver in time for the sunset. That's when the ceremony was always held.
The sacrifice was always delivered. There had never been a time when a family had permitted the chosen one to run. Or if there had been, it happened so long ago that no one could remember the story, or what happened because of that unthinkable transgression.
Mom and Dad had talked about the selection behind the patchy door to their bedroom. There was some kind of disagreement of when the appropriate time to tell Matilda of her position would be. Father thought waiting would be best. After all, wasn't it Mattie's behavior that had gotten her into this mess? She might think she could get away with the unthinkable. Mother thought telling her sooner would be better.
Mom won. Matilda was informed of her selection at breakfast. Her little brother thought it was kind of neat. He was too young to really understand what was happening. Matilda had set her fork down, chewed her last bite, and nodded. She didn't say anything else. What was there to say?
She knew her number was coming up soon.
///
Matilda had gone about her day in an almost dream-like state. It was like someone had stuffed her head full of cotton balls and thickened the air to a consistency of jelly. The world was slow.
The appointed hour took a long time to arrive. No one spoke to her. That was just too awkward. Everyone knew what was to happen. She was already a ghost to them. Already dead at sixteen.
Then it was time. And her parents had each held a hand as they walked to the village square. Her little brother trailed behind like an unwanted puppy. Everyone else from town was already there. They all got real quiet when they realized her family had arrived.
"We are gathered here today to assure our community's continued survival," the mayor said. "We shall cast out our wicked and our sick to ensure our strength and prove our devotion to God's will, who permits our groveling existence."
Matilda didn't need to hear the words. They were the same as they always were. Month in, month out. She'd probably heard that same stupid speech over a hundred times.
Her parents pushed her forward at the appropriate time. She'd dare to look back at them, which was a mistake. Neither of them looked sad or anguished about their loss. If anything, they looked mad. And not for the right reasons. They blamed her. Of course they did.
They gave her the steak knife. Up until that point, she'd never given it any thought. But now that it was her ceremonial weapon, she realized it as the odd choice it was. She wasn't going after butchered meat. If the stories were to be believed, she was going up against demonic forces who would rip her to shreds. The steak knife was entirely useless.
But she had taken it anyway. Better to have an inappropriate weapon than none at all. Right?
///
She stops to retie her boots. It's not that they are untied so much as she is looking for any reason to slow down her approach on the fields. The cotton has been pulled from her ears and if anything, the air feels too thin. Time is moving much too quickly and she can feel the last bit of her life slipping away.
A twig snaps. Somewhere near by. Leaves rustle.
Close. Too close.
She grips the steak knife. Her muscles tense. She's ready.
But nothing happens. She's just an idiot with a useless tool crouching scared in the dark. She lets out a breath. Relaxes.
A dark shape comes running at her. It hits her and knocks her down before she can react. Dirt gets in her mouth. Her hand loses track of the knife.
She kicks at it hard. It yelps.
"Ow!" It rolls off her and coughs. "Matilda?"
She tries to get a closer look. She spits out the dirt. "Warren?"
"Sorry, I though you were--"
"--One of them?"
"Yea."
"Me too."
They both sit in the dark, looking at each other. They laugh.
"Shit, I dropped the steak knife."
Matilda pats the ground around her, searching. It takes her a minute, but her hand does find that smooth handle.
"I didn't mean to scare you, Mattie."
"No, no. It's fine," she says. "Just roaming around in the dark, waiting to be killed by God's demonic scarecrows."
Warren shifts onto his feet. "That's what they say."
"It is what they say."
"Do you really believe that?" Warren stands, brushes the dust and grime from his pants. He holds out a hand to help her up.
She takes it. "I dunno. The village survives, yea? Must be some kind of truth to it. Even if it don't work out quite like they say."
Warren frowns. Even though her eyes are as adjusted as they can be, it's still hard to make out his expression fully. But it's definitely a frown.
"Do you really think," he begins, "that the village thrives because it sends out naughty children to be murdered in the fields?"
She pauses. "Huh. That really does sound stupid when you put it that way."
"But you always knew that."
"I did. But it's always been this way."
"So you're just going to let them kill you?"
"Warren, all I have is a steak knife. A really old and rusty one at that." She ran the serrated edge against her palm to check. It was so dull her finger nails would
do more damage. "Now then, kindly step out of the way because I have a date with destiny and right this moment I don't feel like puking all over your shoes. I'd like to get going while I'm still feeling good."
Instead of getting out of the way, Warren makes himself even more impervious. Which is impressive because he's about two inches smaller than Matilda.
"You're not even going to fight?"
"How many elders are there? How many scarecrows? There's only one Matilda."
"I'll come with you."
"This isn't your night. Go do something naughty. You'll have your turn."
""But Mattie, I don't want my turn. What if I told you--"
"Told me what? That you're hopelessly in love with me?"
He deflates. "How did you know?" He almost sounds wounded, like she's stolen his thunder.
She has no patience for this. "You're standing in the woods tonight. You're offering to go with me when I'm supposed to served up like a sacrificial lamb to either demonic scarecrows or our deranged elders. Why else would you be here?"
He considers this a moment. She has a